


the missing hairpin.

by dylaesthetics



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Car Ride, Childhood Friends, Christmas, Concerts, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Roommates, Secret Santa, Slow Burn, Stydia, Taylor Swift references lol, adult! stydia, lying, travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 20:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30060864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylaesthetics/pseuds/dylaesthetics
Summary: “Hold on.”“What is it?”“It doesn’t mean anything?”Lydia hesitated, her fingers losing the grip on his cheeks.“Yes.”“When you say ‘yes’ do you mean it does or it does not because I never understand sentences like these-”She moved her finger to his mouth, silencing him at once as she tugged at his bottom lip faintly.“Just kiss me, Stiles.”___OR 'i'd rather lie than tell you i'm in love with you', as conan gray sums up this story perfectly.
Relationships: Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	the missing hairpin.

_freshmen_

Neither of them had planned it, not really. It was an unspoken decision, like brewing a cup of coffee for breakfast or turning the car radio up after an argument. Most of these choices Lydia and Stiles made silently, assuming they knew each other as well as themselves.

First, at the approaching end of their Sophomore year of high school. ‘I’m applying for MIT,’ said Lydia, and Stiles applied for another college in Boston. Then, at the end of Junior year, ‘I got accepted,’ said Stiles, and Lydia got on top of searching for an apartment for two. Then, with suitcases thrown on the laminate and heaving chests from the hard climb up the stairs, ‘You sleep in late,’ Lydia told her best friend, pointing at the room with less of the morning sun exposing the head of the bed. Just like that, they settled into the apartment they hoped to be sharing for the next four years.

“First day,” said Stiles, putting down his bowl of cereal across the kitchen table from Lydia. “Sleep alright? Get enough in your system?”

Lydia grunted, fixed on a particularly complicated chapter in a book she was supposed to have read over the summer holidays, “I’m not in the mood for mom talk.”

“Mom talk?”

“The moms in movies always make a big deal out of the first day of school.”

“Why aren’t you in the mood?”

“Tired,” Lydia breathed out, flipping the page over. “The Welcome Week was enough socialising for an eternity. Turns out I’m behind before even starting the course.”

“You’re socialising now,” said Stiles through a mouthful of cereal. Lydia hadn’t the energy to scold him for his impoliteness.

“You don’t count. We live together.”

“I forget,” he admitted with a loud gulp. “The past month has felt like a really long sleepover, except we’re not sharing a bed.”

Lydia found it harder and harder to concentrate on the chapter, memories flushing over her, “Remember the summer before high school we practically spent at each other’s places?”

“Oh, yes. My dad considered calling you his daughter for a bit,” Stiles hesitated momentarily but not for the sake of swallowing a bite. “But, uh, I told him that’s weird.”

“How come?”

“Because I had a crush on you in middle school, of course,” Stiles uttered in a single breath. Finally, Lydia looked up from her book, letting it fall on the table and turn to a different opening. Stiles avoided her eyes, making the floating pieces of cereal swirl around in the milk with his spoon.

“You _what_?”

He cleared his throat, “Like the biggest crush. I thought it was obvious.”

“Not to me,” Lydia shook her head, wide-eyed. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have talked to you about Jackson so much then,” she added guiltily.

“Yes, it was painful. Especially since he was an asshole,” said Stiles warily, glancing up at her to confirm he was allowed to talk about her ex like that. Lydia nodded before picking her book back up; Jackson had never been a good guy.

If she struggled to memorize the chapter before, now she found it almost impossible to read. Stiles, her closest friend in the world, had _liked_ her all those years ago. If she’d known then, perhaps she would’ve liked him back. Perhaps her heart would’ve never been broken by the boys she’d dated before college. Perhaps she would’ve taken _him_ to prom instead of the first guy who’d asked. Perhaps they would be sharing a room now, not sleeping across the hallway from the other.

Lydia was interrupted once again by the clink of a spoon against a bowl, pushed aside. “What about you?” asked Stiles.

“What about me?”

He titled his head, “Haven’t you ever had a crush on me?”

Lydia smirked, holding back a laugh, “Was I supposed to?”

“I’m offended,” said Stiles, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve known me, what, fifteen years? Not even for a second did you think I was attractive?”

“Not dressed like that,” noted Lydia, recalling Stiles’ wardrobe choices in middle school.

“Fair,” Stiles gave in, a little disappointed. “But what about now? I’m wearing a suit and I have a stubble,” he said proudly, waving his hands around. Lydia leaned back, studying him from head to toe with her thumb tugging at her lip. His loose tie, dress shirt half-tucked in his pants and hair shuffled despite his numerous attempts at combing it back - Lydia had a thing for all of him.

“I suppose you’re attractive,” Lydia concluded, pulling a bored face. “Kind of,” she added, just to annoy him more.

Stiles scoffed, crossing his arms, “Seriously? Maybe I shouldn’t have left all those anonymous mixtapes of songs you loved in your locker for the whole final year of middle school if all I get in return is a ‘ _kind of’_?”

“That was _you_?” Lydia blinked in surprise; she’d stored the tapes in her box of middle school memories and sometimes pulled them out just to wonder who’d sent them. “Aw, thanks. I had no idea you were capable of something that sweet.”

“You and every person I’ve dated.”

They laughed, clearing the tension between them that Lydia hadn’t even picked up until. She threw her book into the bag at her feet before looking back at Stiles, “Why’d you stop liking me, anyway?”

“Uh, you know, high school,” uttered Stiles, avoiding her gaze once again. “Brains change, puberty and stuff.”

Lydia pursed her lips, “So what you’re saying is I’m unlikable to those with developed brains? Meaning everyone our age and above?”

She tried to hold her laugh back as Stiles panicked. “No, no, I mean… You’re not unlikeable, I just...” he stopped suddenly, noticing her expression. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” Lydia laughed out, turning her head down. “For all I care, you could’ve stopped liking me because of my toenails or something.”

“What’s with your toenails? Is it contagious? You know, I’ve been stealing your socks these days,” he glanced at the ground. “Washed, but…”

“Nothing is wrong with my toenails,” Lydia dismissed. “My point is, I don’t care why you stopped crushing on me as long as I didn’t break your heart by ignoring your feelings or something. That would’ve sucked.”

Stiles looked away, inspecting the floating bits of cereal.

“Yeah, well…” He glanced at his wristwatch, which Lydia knew had never worked. “Oh, that’s the time! I should’ve left five minutes ago.” Stiles got to his feet, stumbling around the kitchen and picking up his belongings. Lydia watched as he paced, collecting stuff he certainly could’ve dealt without.

“Lasagna night?” he asked, rushing to the door.

“You bet.”

* * *

_sophomores, semester one_

The night before Christmas Eve, Lydia skimmed through her emails at the kitchen counter, occasionally glancing at the two suitcases fallen flat to the ground from when they’d heard the news of all flights in and out of Boston getting cancelled. By now, they would’ve been in her mom’s car on their way to Beacon Hills. Instead, Lydia was forced to listen to Stiles’ constant complaints.

“Is whoever’s in charge of the weather trying to make up for the lack of snow last year? Couldn’t there be a snowstorm after New Year’s?” he asked, listening to the latest prognosis on their sofa. Lydia watched him through the doorway. “I wouldn’t have minded skipping a week of Crime Analysis,” he added wistfully.

“We can bake cookies! Decorate the living room, I bet we can still find a Tree. Throw Secret Santa with whoever’s stayed behind for the holidays - Kira, Isaac, Allison, Scott and his flatmates, Malia, Aiden… _What_ is your problem with him?” asked Lydia, watching Stiles roll his eyes at the mention of Aiden.

“He hates Star Wars!” cried Stiles, jumping up and taking the seat across the kitchen counter from Lydia. “That’s, like, the biggest of red flags.”

“Stiles, _I’m_ dating him, not you,” Lydia reminded, ditching her laptop. “I don’t care if Star Wars is his least favourite thing in the world, in fact, I don’t care about Star Wars at _all_ right now. Anyway, I was thinking of a gold glittery theme for the decorations and we could get the red cups- What are you doing?” Lydia cut herself off once again, noticing Stiles cover his ears with eyes closed.

“I am not listening to you anymore,” he said, opening his eyes to a squint.

“But you just-”

“Nuh-uh,” Stiles shook his head violently. “Can’t hear you.”

He began to babble incoherently, fixed on ignoring her.

“Okay, listen. LISTEN!” Lydia raised her voice to a shout, silencing him immediately. When Stiles removed his hands from his ears warily, she softened up, “I am never talking about Star Wars that way again, okay? I’m sorry.”

Stiles pouted, trying to conceal his affection. Then he rose to his feet and rushed to the living room shelf. When he returned, he was carrying a Star Wars DVD.

“Say sorry to their faces!” Stiles demanded, shoving the cover art in Lydia’s face, who tried to hold back a laugh.

“Alright, alright, sorry,” said Lydia, retreating in her chair. Stiles lowered the DVD, straightening up determinately.

“You’re not inviting Aiden.”

“He happens to be my _boyfriend_ , Stiles.”

“You have the most terrible taste in men.”

Lydia scoffed, knocking her head back, “You’re just jealous.”

Stiles’ mouth hung open, but his next comeback never came. Satisfied, Lydia stretched her arms over the counter.

“Jealous?” Stiles repeated, his cheeks reddening. “Why- Why would I be jealous?”

Lydia raised an eyebrow, “Because you’re single during the holidays. Valentine’s day is just around the corner too.”

Relief flushed over his face, “Oh, is that why you’re dating him - holiday prop? Lydia, you could do better.”

“Like who?”

Stiles shrugged, “Someone who understands Star Wars references would be a good start.”

“You’re the only one I know who does,” reminded Lydia, tapping her fingers against the wooden surface. “But thanks, that’s what I’ll do. Dump Aiden because he doesn’t say ‘may the force be with you’ as ‘good luck’ and date you instead. We can name our children after the characters - Yoda for a girl and Luke for a boy.”

“That’s the dream,” Stiles whistled, his eyes unfocused. Lydia sent him a questioning glance and he seemed to recover. “I mean, naming _my_ children after Star Wars characters.”

“Well, _good luck_ finding someone willing to do that,” said Lydia sceptically, leaning over to shut her laptop before standing up.

“I could just marry you if I don’t,” Stiles blurted out when Lydia had reached the door to her room. She froze with her fingers around the doorknob and looked back at him, severe surprise in his expression. Catching her gaze, he turned white. “Like one of those best friend pacts. Getting married if we’re not by 40 or something.”

Lydia crossed her arms, glaring at him, “You think I won’t be married before I’m 40?”

“Not if you date guys like Aiden,” Stiles declared bravely. Lydia didn’t hesitate to flip him off.

“I’m inviting him. You can either sulk over it in your room or the living room but the cookies will be available in the latter zone only.”

Stiles began to protest once more but Lydia had already turned on her heel and shut the door behind her. She pressed her back against the wall, her chest heaving uncontrollably. Either of them had been joking but Lydia couldn’t help but wonder if that was all there was to it. They’d never agreed on where the line’s drawn. With each passing day, Lydia wasn't certain if the line ever existed at all. 

* * *

By the time their living room was filled with figures in ugly Christmas jumpers - all except for Stiles, who'd insisted on wearing his Star Wars hoodie to spite Aiden - Lydia had completely freed her mind of any lingering thoughts about her best friend. She'd glance over at him from time to time and sometimes he'd glance back, hovering his gaze over Aiden’s arm around her back before sipping from his glass blindly. Each time, Stiles quickly returned to conversing with whoever was nearest on the couch at that time. Malia, a girl Lydia sat beside in some of her duller seminars, seemed to purposefully scoot closer to Stiles every time he'd snap out of his trance. Lydia’s stomach churned, remembering fairly well how Malia had confessed her feelings for Stiles to her just days ago, asking for advice.

When the time to unwrap the rushed Secret Santa gifts arrived, Lydia’s insides were buzzing with both the countless mugs of mulled wine she’d drained and anxiety. A square-shaped glitter mess on top of the pile beneath the tree carried her gift to Stiles, put together even before picking his name. Stiles kneeled to the ground and took charge of passing on the gifts, pushing aside the one with his name scribbled on until the very end. Lydia, resting a pair of mittens from Kira on her lap, watched Stiles as he attempted at unwrapping his gift without ripping the paper. With each passing moment, more of their friends - except for Aiden and Malia - lost interest, engaging in a conversation about New Year’s.

“Just tear it, Stiles,” nudged Lydia.

“I don’t want to, you wrapped it so neatly!”

Lydia shrugged Aiden’s arm off, crouching to the ground beside Stiles and snatching the gift out of his hands. Ignoring his protests, she tugged at the paper and ripped a corner off, revealing the edge of a framed poster.

“What’s this?” asked Stiles, his curiosity outgrowing the frustration. Lydia passed it back to him.

“A poster, since you still haven’t decorated your room. Our landlord will think I’ve killed you or something if there’s no damage to the walls,” Lydia joked nervously, studying Stiles’ face for any hint of disappointment as he removed the rest of the wrapper.

“Why this one?”

“This is the first Star Wars movie we went to see together, remember?” Lydia smiled at the memory, connecting her eyes with Stiles’ and remembering how big they used to look on his much tinier face. Stiles returned the gesture, his gaze softening and cheeks turning slightly pink. Flustered the same, she glanced down, skimming her fingers over the glass. “Anyway, I found it in this vintage merchandise store, apparently someone had ripped it off from a wall outside a cinema back in 1999.”

“And I only got you mittens!” said Kira.

Suddenly remembering that they weren’t alone, Lydia looked around the room. Eight pairs of eyes watched as she and Stiles held the frame, their fingers only an inch from touching. She caught a glimpse of Aiden’s pout and pushed the frame into Stiles’ lap quickly, turning to Kira.

“I love the mittens!” exclaimed Lydia, a little too enthusiastically. “Besides it’s nothing, I was just passing by the other week on my way to-”

“Well, I love it,” interrupted Stiles. Lydia didn’t dare to look at him, sensing Aiden’s continuous gaze on the back of her head. “It’s very us. Whenever I’m in my room I’ll be reminded of the _foundation_ of our friendship,” he added with a laugh. Lydia chuckled nervously before returning to her seat beside Aiden. He didn’t move to put his arm back around her, instead, he scooted away, only by so little it almost didn’t occur to her.

“Are you also a fan of Star Wars?” he asked quietly, forcing a smile.

Lydia nodded slowly, grinning back, “Only because Stiles never shut up about them when we were kids. His entire room was covered in their merch, he had all these character figures, some he made himself with just paper and glue, and bedsheets with-”

“I get it,” said Aiden, putting his hand up. Lydia’s smile ceased.

“Sorry, I know you don’t care about Star Wars, it’s just something Stiles and I-”

“That’s not why it bothers me,” he interrupted her again, his eyes darkening.

“Oh,” Lydia exhaled sharply. “What are you bothered by then?”

Aiden studied the room, each of her friends admiring the poster as Stiles speculated its journey from 1999 to now out loud. He watched him a second longer than the others, his lips pinched.

“I don’t want to talk about it here. Can we go to my place?”

Lydia hesitated, hearing Stiles ask if anyone wanted more wine. She waited until he disappeared into the kitchen to speak, “Uh, sure.”

As Aiden excused himself to the bathroom, Lydia froze in her seat. She thought back to what she’d told him but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t understand what frustrated Aiden. When Allison asked if she was alright, she shrugged it off and mumbled something about helping Stiles before rushing away.

When she entered the kitchen, Stiles was pouring smokey mulled wine into two mugs. Lydia coughed, swallowing down the lump forming in her throat. He stopped with the pot tilted midair, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry to ask this of you again, but can you clean up after? I’m heading over to Aiden’s.”

Stiles placed the pot on the stove with a clack, “But I already cleaned up after the last party!”

“That’s why I said ‘again’,” said Lydia apologetically, making him roll his eyes. 

He sighed, dropping his hands to his sides, “Only if you clean up after dinner until Tuesday.”

“But Monday’s lasagna night!” protested Lydia, crossing her arms. “That’s so many dishes…” She trailed off, pulling a face. He exposed a knowing smug before dropping it just as quickly.

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Stiles, heat rising in his cheeks. He put a hand in the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out a small box. “Merry Christmas or Happy Hanukkah, I don’t really get the difference,” he continued, passing it to Lydia.

“There’s no Secret Santa in the Jewish one,” Lydia explained, shaking the box and hearing a clatter. “But thank you.”

She opened the lid, exposing a peculiar watch with a singular hand that followed letters instead of numbers. She glanced up at Stiles in confusion, resting it on her palm.

He cleared his throat, “Once you set it up, it counts days from Sunday to Monday, must be British or something... But now you’ll always know how many days it is until lasagna night! Or other, less important things happening on Mondays, like exams.”

Lydia chuckled, squinting her eyes, “You truly know where my priorities lie.”

“You like it?” asked Stiles, frowning. Lydia let the watch fall around her wrist loosely.

“I’ll wear it every day,” she confirmed, offering her hand to Stiles. With his fingers trembling, he closed the clasp. “Until there are no more lasagna nights to look forward to.”

Stiles squinted, leaning away, “Why would there be no more lasagna nights?”

“When we move out one day there won’t be. Either of us could find a job elsewhere or get into a serious relationship-”

Stiles’ lips curled as he stepped back, “You’re not ditching me for the Star Wars anti, are you?”

“ _Aiden_ and I aren’t serious,” she corrected him. “Don’t worry, it’ll be long before that, if ever. I don’t like him _that_ much-”

“Lydia,” Stiles said warningly, looking behind her. She followed his gaze, swinging around and meeting eyes with Aiden. He watched her bitterly, opening and shutting his mouth repeatedly until finally speaking, “I think the talking can’t wait. Everyone else is leaving anyway.” He waved towards the door lazily. 

“I- Uh, yes.”

Without hesitating, Aiden took her hand and led her back into the living room, where Lydia rushed her goodbyes to the others, thanking her half-coated friends for coming. Once they left the apartment, Aiden dragged her towards the fire escape ladder, pushing the window up to climb out. Lydia shivered as the freezing air hit her bare skin and the city ambience drowned out her unsteady breaths. She waited for Aiden to say something but he didn’t, not until her eyes adjusted to the dark, occasionally illuminated by the falling snowflakes reflecting the starlight.

“We’re over.”

Lydia breathed out a cloud of frost, “What?”

Aiden scoffed, turning to Lydia with his head lowered, hand clutching the railing, “Clearly your heart’s set on someone else. So I want to stop seeing you before it gets _serious_.”

“What? No, I like _you_.”

“Then why is Stiles more your boyfriend than I am?”

Lydia’s mouth fell open. Unwillingly, her gaze darted to the watch around her wrist.

“We’re just-”

“You’re _not_ just friends,” Aiden disputed, pacing around the ladder. He stopped a foot in front of her, his forehead lined. “You _love_ him but, for some stupid reason, you won’t admit it. He loves you too. And I don’t ever want to step between any two people who evidently want to be together. So you and me - we’re over.”

Lydia no longer felt the winter air freezing her skin, in fact, she felt nothing at all. Aiden bored into her eyes, expecting something - _anything_ \- but she couldn't think of a single thing to say that could prove his assumption to be mistaken. Finally, he looked away in disappointment, turning to head down the stairs.

“Wait,” called Lydia, stopping him immediately. Aiden looked up at her through the perforated platform, holding onto the railings for support. She swallowed hard, inhaling the frost-bitten air, “What makes you think I love him like that?”

Aiden smiled sadly, “Everything.”

Lydia remained still on the ladder, her gaze following him down to the street until he vanished from her sight. She slammed her back against the window, slumping down to her knees.

She hadn't a clue how long she stayed like that, hands skimming over her legs and pretending that whatever rapid movement kept her warm. Snowflakes melted through the holes above her, landing an inch from her feet. One drop. Lydia was _not_ in love with Stiles. Another. She wasn't. A third. Yet her heart thumped against her chest in the most painful of ways anyhow. 

Eventually, the cold forced Lydia to crawl back into their apartment and its deserted living room. She observed the sofa yearningly, but her feet took her back into the kitchen at the sound of clinking dishes. 

“I thought you've left for Aiden’s,” said Stiles, glancing at her as she pressed her back against the counter, two shelves away from the sink. 

“I intended to,” Lydia croaked out. “Until he broke up with me.”

He gaped at her, holding a cup midair. When water flushed over its golden rim, he recovered, closing the tap and letting the cup fall into the sink. 

“I’m sorry,” uttered Stiles, water dripping from his fingertips. Lydia pinched her lips, gaze fixed at her feet. He cleared his throat, “Uh, we’ve got more wine. Want to have the worst kind of hangover on Boxing day?”

Lydia picked her head up, “Please.”

Helplessly, her eyes followed his every movement, from drying his hands to heating up the leftover wine and pouring it into her favourite mug, one Stiles liked to borrow while he stayed home alone and pretend he never did, although more often than not Lydia would find it half-wet. Holding the scorching drink, Stiles motioned to the door and she happily followed him to the sofa. Once settled down, he passed the mug to her carefully, his hand cupping around hers, as hot as the drink against her skin. She barely sipped from it before putting it on the coffee table.

“You're freezing,” Stiles stated, rubbing his hands. “You should get under a blanket.”

“I don't want to move,” she complained, shutting her eyelids.

“That's what I'm here for.”

Her eyes fluttered open as Stiles tugged a blanket around her, his arm stretching over her chest. He stopped as their eyes connected, lighting up the otherwise gloomy space. Lydia fought off the urge to do something as impulsive as dragging herself towards him and kissing him to relieve her frustration, but as Stiles scooted away, she pulled half the blanket over him and rested her head on his shoulder in one swift movement. Heat radiated from him, much more compelling than the drink and blanket combined. She eased into his hoodie, inhaling a mix of cologne and washing powder. She was acting stupid, very stupid, but his presence prevented any agonising thought about the fragment of past that Aiden had become now. When Stiles reached for her hands under the blanket, rubbing away the cold, she brushed the thoughts aside completely, hoping her rising heartbeat wasn’t too evident. He didn’t let go of her when they’d warmed up, drawing faint circles on her palms and sending shivers across every inch of her skin. She felt his head turn and a second later he was brushing her hair away with his nose, occasionally poking her cheek and apologising in a whisper. Unable to restrain herself any longer, she picked up her head and, without thinking, without any consideration of her actions, out of pure curiosity, skimmed her lips over his softly, hardly touching them at all.

Lydia pulled away as quickly as she’d pulled in, squinting in embarrassment as she pulled the blanket over her reddening cheeks, disconnecting their hands. “Sorry, I don’t know what that was,” she squeaked out, darting a glance at Stiles, who appeared as though he’d been hit by a brick. “Suppose I wanted to kiss you but then somewhere in the middle I realised it’s probably not a good idea if I’m only doing it because I’m upset about the breakup and you’re the first person around.” Stiles inhaled sharply, turning his head opposite of Lydia, whose eyes widened in panic. “No, that came out wrong, that’s not what I meant. I wouldn’t mind kissing you and I didn’t try to kiss you just because you’re the only one here, in fact, yes, I _would_ kiss you _properly_ some time, can’t believe we’ve been friends this long and we haven’t-”

“It’s fine, Lydia,” Stiles cut her off, turning back with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s just a… Well, I wouldn’t even call it a kiss.”

Lydia sucked her teeth, “Yes, but I _can_ kiss!”

“Never said you couldn’t.”

“I’m a really good kisser actually.”

“Sure you are.”

Stiles watched her nervously, his smug growing at her frustration.

Lydia crossed her arms, “If you’re trying to provoke me, it’s _not_ working.”

His eyes widened as he scooted an inch away, “Hey, hey, I’m simply agreeing with you.”

Lydia swallowed hard, her gaze falling on his lips as he chewed on them lightly. Tension grew between them the longer they studied the slightest change in the other’s expression, looking for any sign that this wasn’t okay. It never came.

“I’ll kiss you-”

“But I didn’t ask-” protested Stiles immediately.

“-as an apology for not doing so in middle school, if that’s alright with you.”

Surprise flushed over his face, whether from the proposition or that she hadn’t forgotten his revelation from over a year ago.

“Well, _that’s_ fine,” said Stiles, shuffling in his seat. “How are we doing this then? Any special requirements-”

“Not now,” said Lydia quickly. “Another time.”

“Another…” he uttered in disbelief. “Will I get any warning then?”

“It'll come when the time is right.”

“So no warning?”

“We are not talking about this anymore, Stiles.”

“What are we doing then?”

“You could show me your collection of cat videos.”

As she drained her mug and each of them emptied one more, they laughed or aw’ed at the clips, only stealing glances when they assumed the other’s eyes were squinted at the screen. Tension had lifted and, by the end of Stiles’ folder, Lydia’s mind was once again occupied with Aiden’s accusations.

“Do you think we spend too much time with each other?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

Wrinkles spread across his forehead, “You can’t really escape it if you live together.”

“That’s not true. Allison and Kira live together and they say they hardly see each other, in the evenings at best. _We_ meet up for lunch even though my campus is across the city from yours.”

Stiles shrugged, his chin down, “If you don’t want to, we can stop.”

“That’s the thing. I don’t want to,” Lydia disputed at once. “But other people seem to think that we’re-”

“Who cares what other people think?”

“Aiden broke up with me because I’m too close to you,” Lydia revealed without thinking, pinching her lips right after. She hadn't meant to. From the second Aiden had said it, she promised herself to keep that detail from Stiles. Now it seemed most prominent to admit.

“Oh,” he exhaled, bewildered.

“He mentioned these things that I don’t think are true,” she continued cautiously.

“Like what?”

“What he said doesn’t matter. Just…” Lydia trailed off, sweeping her apprehension aside. “Maybe we _should_ spend less time together, even if we don’t want to. It’s healthier that way and others are less confused-”

“He said he thinks I’m in love with you, didn’t he?” Stiles asked nonchalantly.

Lydia exhaled in relief - he said it before she had to. She nodded quickly.

“And that I love you, but it’s stupid because-”

“I get it,” Stiles stopped her, revealing a small smile. “Less Lydia and Stiles time so you don’t kick me out for ruining your love life. Fine by me.”

Bitterness churned in her stomach at his simple dismissal, “Really?”

“As much of a compliment as him thinking someone like you could like me is, I think I should give you the chance to marry out of love, not because you’re single at 40.”

Lydia blinked, “Someone like me?”

Stiles hesitated, plucking his nails nervously. “Surely, you’re aware that you’re like the girl that everybody wants. In high school, at least, everyone considered you the attractive one, poorly neglecting your abilities if I may add,” he said in a single breath.

With a chuckle, Lydia turned her head down, maintaining eye contact, “Well, you’re really attractive as well.”

His mouth fell open slightly, “Not ‘kind of’?”

“I was just teasing you back then. Half my friends have a crush on you, in fact,” Lydia disclosed, recalling the numerous comments her coursemates had made when they’d spotted Stiles in a picture, as well as - and her lips pinched again at the thought - Malia.

“Like who?”

“I’m taking those secrets to my grave.”

“Look who’s messing with the other’s love life now!” Stiles exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Too soon?” he asked, noticed Lydia’s frown.

“A little.”

An almost silence captured them for a moment, all except the buzzing of the living room lamp and the restless passing of cars, tires protesting the snow-coated asphalt. Lydia broke it, reaching for the blanket Stiles had brought from her room, “I better go to sleep. Or, that is, rewatch The Notebook like I usually do after a breakup.”

“Hang on,” said Stiles, a sudden realisation evident in his expression. “Is what Aiden said why you tried to kiss-”

“Goodnight,” interrupted Lydia, rushing towards the door of her room at the speed of sound.

“Goodnight to you too,” she heard Stiles utter disappointedly before shutting her door. For the second night that week, she fell asleep dreaming about the boy across the corridor and whether she played a role in his dreams too.

* * *

_sophomores, semester two_

Stiles hated farewell parties. When he and Lydia moved away from California, she'd gathered their friends, who then invited all of _their_ friends, at her lake house and, between conversing with people he'd only ever passed by in the hallways and hiding from an ex someone had invited, he failed to have a good time. Stiles hated farewell parties but he tried not to just this once, as spending the last night with Lydia in eight months - the longest they'd ever be apart - was prone to result in a tearful night if they were alone. He had no intention of crying until the very last moment, when Lydia turned her back to him and walked out of the airport, leaving him all alone at the security check.

Sometimes Stiles even reconsidered his temporary move to England for his internship. He'd grown used to waking up to breakfast with Lydia, picking her up from university - even if it didn't save them much gas in perspective - and their binge-watching evenings, not so frequent anymore since the promise he'd made on Christmas. They'd both learnt to find it necessary and perhaps partly growing out of their codependence could help them separate, though Stiles doubted it.

He tried to like the party, yet, from another side, barely recognising the new friends of Lydia’s that she’d invited to their apartment on the night before his flight and watching all of them drink, while Stiles reckoned handling a hangover during his seven-hour flight wasn't preferable, made him grumpier than usual.

Two remotely memorable occurrences had distraught him by ten o'clock - the people Stiles didn't recognise had thrown their version of True American, which then resulted in Lydia occupying the bathroom to puke. He’d held her as she leaned over the bathroom, ignoring the sick that had landed on the jacket of his suit (Lydia had insisted on formal outfits), which now whirled inside the washing machine. Lydia had sobered up and excused herself to her room to freshen up just minutes ago.

“Hey, man!” said the owner of a voice Stiles didn’t recognise before taking a seat beside him on the sofa. Evidently bored, Stiles glanced at him through the glass of Coke he held to his mouth. “It’s Adam, the guy you banished from the bathroom earlier.”

If Stiles had to use one word to describe Adam, it would be a jock. Drunk one at that.

“Sorry about that, a girl’s gotta puke,” said Stiles, feeling like his own words came from a stranger. Rightfully, he blamed the radiating asshole energy.

Adam let out a laugh that pained Stiles’ hearing. He leaned in close to his ear and Stiles retreated so far, he almost fell over the edge of the sofa. “So, what’s your deal with that redhead, anyway?”

“Who, Lydia?” asked Stiles, putting the glass to his mouth again and taking a big gulp.

Adam nodded, “Are you _together_ together or just sleeping together?”

Out of pure shock, he swallowed the Coke down the wrong hole, choking and wheezing until his lungs recovered, “We- We’re not anything. Lydia and I have just been friends since primary school.”

Ignoring Stiles’ heaving chest, Adam continued, his eyes lit up, “Oh, I just thought… But no, that’s great, truly.”

“Why?”

Adam thrust his jaw forward, “ _I_ wouldn’t mind sleeping with her.”

Although relieved he wasn’t taking a sip this time, Stiles had to fight off the growing urge to punch him in the face. Even despite his everlasting feelings for Lydia making an appearance, he trusted his unbiased _friend's_ judgement - Adam was not someone Lydia was eager to take to her room.

“Man to man,” said Stiles for the first time in his life, leaning into Adam’s ear as he had. He searched his mind for something, anything that would make a jock change his mind. “She has a thing. Her toenails… There’s something really wrong with them.”

Adam winced, “I shouldn’t have sex with her because of her toenails?”

Stiles couldn’t believe it hadn’t worked. He questioned his impression of Adam - perhaps he’d only mistaken him for an asshole. But there was still a fair chance he was right.

“There’s also the...” started Stiles, studying the room for ideas. He spotted Kira and Malia on the ground by the other couch they’d purchased recently, laughing as they looked up at the others. He had to improvise. “Gambling addiction. Yes, we’ve had to sell some, uh, furniture,” he motioned to the emptier spots on the laminate.

Adam flinched, not looking very convinced, “Look, I really don’t care, I’m not looking for anything more than a night. She’s just hot, that’s all. Girls like her aren’t dating material anyway.”

This, however, made Stiles lose his temper - he rose to his feet, spilling the contents of his glass over the coffee table carpet and raising his voice the same. “She’s not a piece of meat! You can’t just…” Stiles paused, noticing all conversation cease and dozens of eyes glaring at him. He cleared his throat, turning back to face Adam and lowering his voice, “Leave her alone. In fact, just _leave_.”

Adam stood up as well, his spit drizzling over Stiles’ face as he protested, “She invited me!” 

“Now you’re uninvited,” uttered Stiles, taking his shoulder and pulling Adam towards the exit. “I live here, too, and I don’t like you.”

Adam knocked off his hand, stopping by a pile of the guests’ bags, “Aren’t you moving out tomorrow?”

“Just- Just get out of here!” ordered Stiles, slamming a sports bag he spotted into Adam’s chest, almost entirely certain it belonged to him. He accepted it, his nostrils expanding with each sharp inhale. Admitting his loss, Adam turned on his kneel and opened the door to the stairway, lingering on the threshold before slamming it shut behind him.

“Where’d Adam rush off to?”

Stiles swung around, meeting eyes with Lydia, who stood with her hand still around the handle, the door pulled halfway shut. She had changed into a different dress with a lower neckline and fixed her smushed makeup, reminding him of their prom night - watching their classmate’s hands around Lydia’s waist from across the dancefloor, so close yet so unreachable - except this time her attention was on him. He shook his head to recover, remembering her question.

“He got bored,” said Stiles quickly, noticing the others - previously silenced by the argument - starting to open their mouths. “Babbled something about other plans.” To Stiles’ relief, no one corrected him, and soon enough the conversation recommenced.

By midnight, Lydia had pushed every guest out through the exit, making the excuse of Stiles leaving on an early flight - if 6 in the afternoon could be considered early - when really, Stiles knew she wanted to talk to him, based on the glares she shot at him since her return. When the last stranger whose name Stiles didn’t catch left, he expected a kind of an attack but Lydia seemed to neglect the fact that they were alone, rushing to clean up the living room in silence.

“Can I help-” Stiles started, standing in the middle of the apartment awkwardly.

“I’m good,” Lydia cut him off, bumping into him hard as she passed by on her way to the kitchen. Bewildered, Stiles remained in his position, moving only when she darted from one room to the other. This was _not_ how he’d planned to spend his last hours with Lydia before leaving for eight months.

After ten minutes of listening to glasses slamming against others in the sink, one of which’s shattering was supported by a series of curses, Lydia returned with her arms behind her back. The hair she’d tied up with a star-shaped hairpin was now tousled, a lock or two flat against her forehead, and her chest heaved as she revealed a bottle of red wine. Without a word, she sprinted towards Stiles’ room. By the time he reached the door, Lydia had laid on his bed and unscrewed the bottle. Cautiously, he shut the door behind him and entered his peculiarly empty room, most of his luggage already squeezed into the trunk of his Jeep. With no source of light in the room, Lydia’s figure was illuminated by the flickering street lamps’ coming through his window. He listened as Lydia gulped a fair amount of wine, tossing the bottle aside.

“You were sick before, you probably shouldn’t-”

“Yeah, but now I’m sober and perfectly alright,” Lydia said bitterly, standing back up and approaching the window. She stopped suddenly, observing the Star Wars poster he’d hung above the rolled-up blinds, before hopping on the sill, even though her feet reached the ground without a struggle. Stiles remained by the door until she looked at him expectantly, patting the space beside her. Once on the window sill, he could read Lydia’s expression perfectly - bitter and upset.

“Lydia-”

“So when did you start lying to me?” she asked carelessly, swinging her feet in the air with her hands seizing the edge of the sill. Stiles sent her a questioning glance, his heart drumming against his ribs, to which Lydia responded with a forced smile. “Kira told me you kicked Adam out, you told me he got _bored_ of the party _I_ threw. Why lie?”

All became clear to Stiles as he eased against the glass.

“I just didn’t want you to be dealing with him. He wasn’t a good guy.”

Lydia’s faked smile turned into a genuine frown, “What’d he do?”

Becoming more optimistic, Stiles decided to stick to the truth, “For starters, he came only to have sex with you.”

Lydia’s forehead lined, “And you kicked him out _why_?”

“Uh...” Stiles hesitated, losing the short-lived burst of confidence.

“Just because you’ve known me forever doesn’t mean you can make decisions for me. You’re not in control of my life,” she declared, sucking her teeth.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. He just straight up told me he didn’t care about you and just wanted to get laid because you’re hot, among other things...” Stiles trailed off; he had no intention of revealing Adam’s assumption about her being easy.

Lydia sighed defiantly, “Stiles, it’s _just_ sex, it doesn’t have to mean something every time. Maybe I _wanted_ to have completely meaningless sex tonight. I’ve been single for five months now.”

Stiles squirmed in his seat, every part of him filled with regret for ever interjecting, pushing aside his jealousy, “You’re right, it’s none of my business. Uh, sorry.”

The room fell silent, apart from Lydia clicking her tongue as she observed every inch of his room - not that there was much to see - until boring her eyes into his, “Don’t _you_ ever just want to do it?” 

“With you?” asked Stiles, dumbfounded. 

“No, I mean with anyone at a party,” Lydia clarified, her eyes widening. Embarrassed, Stiles broke their eye contact, choosing to pay a little too much attention to his feet instead, until Lydia spoke again, a hint of intrigue in her quiet voice. “But, actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

“What?”

Lydia’s glance darted across his body, her lips pouted, “Stiles, do _you_ want to have sex with me?”

“ _What?_ ”

“It wouldn’t mean anything,” Lydia rushed to explain as Stiles felt his soul leave his body. “Just two good friends and a one-night stand. You can say no and forget I ever asked. Either way, we never speak of it again. You’re leaving for your internship tomorrow anyway.”

“H-have…” Stiles exhaled, his lips parting.

“Sex, yes, are you unfamiliar with the definition?” asked Lydia impatiently, completely unaware of his heart trying to leap out of his throat. He shook his head, hardly feeling any attachment to his body.

“Sure. I mean… Yeah, okay, I guess,” said a voice he knew belonged to him but he couldn’t associate his mouth with it.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Stiles confirmed, pulling himself together. “Hundred per cent.”

Lydia examined his face, searching for any hint of protest, but Stiles stared back at her fixedly, not daring to move even a muscle. The next moment, her hands were cupping his cheeks as she kissed him, wine sweet on her mouth.

Before his reflex to kiss her back kicked in, he disconnected their lips, moving only an inch away, “Hold on.”

“What is it?”

“It doesn’t mean anything?”

Lydia hesitated, her fingers losing the grip on his cheeks. 

“Yes.”

“When you say ‘yes’ do you mean it does or it does not because I never understand sentences like these-”

She moved her finger to his mouth, silencing him at once as she tugged at his bottom lip faintly.

“Just kiss me, Stiles.”

So he did without hesitation, incapable of controlling the love flushing over every inch of his body, entrapping him in a bittersweet universe where, yes, his fingers were caught in the strawberry blonde locks of the girl he was in love with as his mouth moved with hers, but, no, she wasn’t pulling him in closer and deepening the kiss because she loved him back. The scent of her flowery perfume intoxicated his mind, luring him in more. Then came familiarity. Lydia slowed down, her lips parting as if in surprise, and they drifted apart for no more than a second, arms locked around the other’s neck and chests heaving a stupidly small distance away, searching for any hint of change in the other’s gleaming gaze. There was none. As Lydia moved forward, Stiles tilted her chin up, scattering slow kisses across her jawline, down to the neck of her dress until she reacted, thrusting her chest forward - one hand tensing in his hair as she drew him in and the other pressed to the cool glass, leaving a print. Stiles found her mouth again, pinning her back against the window, her hairpin clinking against it, as he kissed her without stopping, without breathing, without thinking, before picking her up into the air. She tied her legs around his waist firmly as he stumbled towards the edge of his bed, holding her as though she weighed nothing at all. He started letting her down slowly and, as their lips drifted a millimetre apart, Lydia grabbed the collar of his shirt and began to loosen his tie blindly. Supporting her midair with one hand, he searched for the zip of her scarlet dress with trembling fingers. He realised only then that she wasn’t wearing a bra. One last time, they pulled away, exploring each other’s perplexed expressions as he pulled down her dress and she unbuttoned his shirt with ease, like a reflex, like they’d done it a million times before.

The rest was a blur.

Sometime in the middle of the night, or perhaps a life worth of time from the moment he’d said yes, Lydia muttered “interesting” under her breath.

“What is?” asked Stiles sleepily, snuggling into the curve of her neck.

“You know just what to do.”

He let out a weak chuckle, “This wasn’t my first time.”

“I know,” she uttered, tilting his chin to meet his eyes, both pairs carrying a hint of fear, “But you know just what to do to _me_.”

* * *

_juniors_

It had all started with the night after his flight. Upon arriving from the airport that May afternoon, blinded by uncontrollable tears, every inch of the apartment she crossed triggered the slightest reminder of him in the depths of her mind, but her room, her bed - where he’d never laid in - haunted her especially. So she started spending the nights in his empty room, fighting back the memories from the final time he’d slept there, hugging her to his chest, for the simple reason that by remembering, her heart yearned for another moment just like that, unreachable in the near future, if ever again. The scent of his shampoo evaporated from his sheets just a week into Stiles’ new life across the ocean, always too busy for Lydia, whether because of time zones or the overlap of their shifts, but occasionally because he ‘didn’t feel like it’ or ‘needed to live in the present.’ Not once in their rushed calls could he make enough time for Lydia to slip in an ‘I’ve realised that, after all, I _am_ in love with you.’

Tonight Lydia slept in her bed, her sheets as cold as the February wind whistling through the gaps in her window frame. She awaited midnight, her wrist stretched out as she bored into the watch he’d gifted her the Christmas before, sulking as the hand refused to travel from Sunday to Monday. For eight months, Lydia had anticipated _this_ Monday, not because of some tradition of cooking lasagna for dinner, but because Stiles would return home at last.

The following morning she replaced the sheets of Stiles’ bed with freshly washed ones, skimming her fingers over the mattress longingly, and moved every little thing she'd placed on his nightstand back onto hers. To lose time, she went on a particularly long hunt for Stiles’ favourite snacks to fill the emptier kitchen shelves with. When the clock struck two in the afternoon, she hopped into the Jeep and drove towards the airport, missing green lights by a second and getting honked at for speeding at every junction, the lump in her throat too distracting. As much as she couldn't wait to see Stiles again, terror outgrew the excitement. For the first time, she would look at him in the new light, knowing fully well that she loves him in the way she wasn't so certain of before he'd kissed her.

Lydia roamed the airport, following the directions to arrivals from London through the crowds of travellers and their loved ones. Any minute now his plane would land. She passed a few more dozen gates. Any second now…

Reaching the end of the everlasting corridor, Lydia realised just how lost she was. All around her, the timetables displayed domestic arrivals and she couldn't spot a single staff member that could help her out. She wandered back down the hallway, glancing into the shops and searching for Stiles’ distinctive figure. She stopped at a souvenir store, picking up a plush toy from its Valentine’s day display. As she squeezed its stomach, the words ‘I love you’ came out in a robotic voice. 

“I think, and this is just an assumption, that you might be looking the wrong way.”

Dropping the toy back into the basket, the phrase sounding at impact, Lydia swung around. With his hand situated on the handle of a luggage trolley, Stiles watched her from the midst of a dissipating crowd by a gate she'd missed before, the most curious of smiles exposed. He appeared older and more serious nevertheless, and Lydia could spot a more detectable lining of abs through his white shirt. Either of them stood still, waiting until a final group of travellers pushed their trolleys away from the gate. Then she headed towards the boy with open arms, picking up pace as she landed into his chest midair and he caught her by her waist. She cried into his shirt, inhaling its familiar scent and wrapping her arms firmer around his back until he chuckled through a muffled sniffle. Finally, she pulled away with her arms still locked around his neck, their noses almost brushing and lips pinched in restraint. 

“You're real,” uttered Lydia, fixing the tie she'd messed up back into place. Her fingers froze, recognising the same fabric they'd thrown to the ground the night of the farewell party.

He let out a laugh, “So are you, for over twenty years now.” Stiles’ gaze trailed off somewhere behind her as he rose to his tiptoes, “What was that you were looking at?”

“Nothing,” Lydia uttered quickly, taking charge of the trolley and hooking his elbow in hers. “Let's go home.”

* * *

Having finally carried his suitcases up four flights of stairs and dumped them in Stiles’ room with no intention of unpacking, they sat at each end of a sofa with their legs crossed beneath them, munching on a variety of snacks and occasionally throwing pieces of candy into each other’s mouth just to miss every time.

“Tell me everything! You kept saying you couldn't talk because it was all so confidential,” Lydia demanded, squirming in her seat in excitement. Stiles swallowed a mouthful of candy before speaking.

“I'm still not legally allowed to, we were investigating some pretty morbid murders after the training ended.”

“You're right, I bet the government bugged every intern before leaving…” said Lydia mockingly, quietening her voice into a whisper as she scanned the room with widened eyes. Annoyedly, Stiles threw a fistful of Maltesers at her, “They could've!”

“How was England then?” asked Lydia, stopped laughing at his frustration. 

“It wasn't as wet and gloomy as people say, it was actually more than that - I don't think I came home dry from a single day of my training. The tea thing is true too!” exclaimed Stiles, bewildered. “We spent a week at the hills in Wales at the end of summer and, in comparison to England, there isn't a more beautiful place in the world,” he paused to daydream with his mouth ajar before carrying on. “Initially I was so homesick and jetlagged, I had to miss the first week of the program and they almost sent me back. But then Cora, another intern who'd been there a month longer, filled me in on everything and helped me get on track. If it wasn't for her, I probably would've been back here in no time. Anyway, when the training started-”

Lydia listened to him as he recalled the funniest nights at the camp and rambled on til disclosing the most minute of detail of their top-secret investigations. She smiled or frowned at the right parts, her eyes emitting nothing but pure relief to finally hear his voice outside a glitching call and breathe in the same room again.

“When Autumn kicked in, we returned to London to office jobs, yeah, I think it was October because that's when I started dating Cora. I couldn't before because it wasn't technically allowed to go out with your coworkers but-”

Lydia’s insides twisted into a knot.

“You have a girlfriend!” she exclaimed a little too excitedly, forcing a crooked smile. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“As I said, we weren't allowed to- Well, she's not my girlfriend anymore anyway. She's from Washington and didn't want to deal with long distance so we broke up,” Stiles said bitterly, pinching his lips.

That didn’t relieve the ache spreading across her chest, “You're not over her?”

He nodded weakly, avoiding her piercing gaze, “I really struggle with the whole ‘getting over people’ concept.”

“You should call her,” encouraged Lydia to her own surprise. 

“Because that would definitely speed up the overcoming process,” Stiles noted sarcastically. “I'll be fine. Besides I need to catch up with a semester worth of college and I have no time for dating.”

Stiles rambled on all through dinner but Lydia failed to keep her attention on him, wincing over her plate at every mention of Cora, her chin down. A sort of relief flushed over her when he excused himself to go to bed. As he disappeared into his room, Lydia stayed behind in the kitchen to clean up, scratching off the bits of food from the plates with such strength, their colour faded.

Then a muffled yelp in pain, followed by curses, reached her ears and, all at once, she dried her hands and rushed to Stiles’ room.

Stiles, wearing nothing but pajama shorts, was massaging his right foot over the mattress. Distracted by his exposed stomach, Lydia didn't notice the cause of his pain until he looked at her, flashing one of Lydia's especially sharp-edged hairpins in her face.

“Where the hell did this come from?” cried Stiles, his face screwed up. Lydia stood frozen - she had no memory of ever bringing it over from her room on the nights she'd slept in his bed. Struck by the realisation, their eye contact broke. “Well, there you go,” Stiles croaked out, passing the hairpin to her blindly. She clutched it tightly, the cool metal cooling her skin. She watched as Stiles unzipped one of his suitcases, rummaging through his belongings and pulling the first t-shirt he could find over his head.

“Listen, I know we weren’t supposed to but I wanted to talk to you about the night we-”

“Do you mind if I go to sleep?” Stiles cut her off sharply, stepping toward her. “It’s long past midnight in the UK now.”

He cornered her until she had no choice but to retreat, her back slamming against the door. 

“Of course,” Lydia’s breath fell heavier as Stiles leaned over her to push the handle down, the side of his hand brushing over her hip momentarily. Lydia reentered the living room backwards and spoke again, “Can we talk first thing tomorrow though? It’s quite a pressing matter.” But the door had already clicked shut.

Her mind flooding with suspicion that Stiles had turned her down on purpose, Lydia tossed and turned between her achingly cold sheets, unable to sleep. Stiles had returned home. With him around, Lydia had no choice but to break the promise of silence she’d proposed herself before kissing him the first time. Her eyes fluttered shut, searching for the memory but all she could locate was the feeling - everything falling perfectly into place naturally as her skin prickled in every place their bodies touched and chemicals stewed around in her head with lust.

By the time Lydia stumbled out of her room the following morning, Stiles had half-stormed out of the apartment, muttering something about the library. When Lydia returned home from her shift that evening, she struggled to push the door to his room open; she’d never known it even carried a lock.

Lydia didn’t see him for longer than a minute at a time for the next month. Stiles ate in his room and awoke untypically early, always rushing out. Each time she attempted at making plans with him, Stiles uttered the same excuse.

“I can’t, I’m literally doing two terms at the same time…”

Occupied with work and the end of the midterm herself, Lydia had given up on getting Stiles to talk to her. He would enter the living room as she laid across the sofa, watching lectures on her laptop, and she wouldn’t bat an eye even when he addressed her. He seemed to linger in her presence longer then, as if he didn’t fear her confrontation anymore.

On the Friday evening before the start of Easter break, whatever act Stiles had obtained seemed to finally get the best of him. He tiptoed inside the bathroom as Lydia was removing her makeup in the mirror, hiding his hands from her sight.

“Set an alarm for six in the morning tomorrow,” said Stiles, jumping on top of the washing machine. Lydia threw a cotton pad in the bin to be able to kick him back down. Stiles settled for sitting on the edge of their bathtub instead, staring at her through the mirror with a great smug.

“Because?” 

“I’m driving us to NYC tomorrow.”

She swung around to face him with furrowed eyebrows, “For what?”

“Your twenty-second birthday gift.”

With how occupied he’d been since the night of his return, Lydia had assumed he wouldn’t have remembered. She grinned, tearing her gaze from his eyes down to her feet.

“Why New York of all places?” wondered Lydia. Stiles’ smug turned bigger as he stepped forward, revealing what he’d been hiding behind his back.

“That’s where Taylor Swift decided to perform on your birthday,” said Stiles, flashing two tickets. “The seats aren’t perfect but I swear - getting first row is harder than winning the lottery-”

Lydia interrupted him by trapping him in an embrace. Hugging him felt forbidden after the month of silence but soon the frustration lifted and she forgot to have been mad at him. He hesitated to wrap his outstretched arm around her at first but then eased into her.

“I don’t care, it’s Taylor Swift! This is so great, I-” Lydia paused, unable to control her smile as they drifted apart. She looked at him shyly. “Thank you.”

Stiles seemed very pleased with himself, a dimpled grin and all flustered, “A shame 22’s not on the setlist, though, I checked. Would’ve been perfect.”

“We can listen to it in the car. What is it - a five-hour ride? Is 75 times enough?” asked Lydia, doing the math in her head quickly. He looked baffled, squinting as he struggled to do the math himself.

“If you want to start hating her, yes.” More heat rose to his cheeks. “But we’re listening to something else. I sort of made you a playlist,” he added, looking anywhere but at her.

“Sounds familiar,” teased Lydia, remembering his confession about the no longer anonymous mixtapes. “Except it’s not because of a middle school crush anymore.”

Stiles’ mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to correct her but it never departed from his lips. He cleared his throat, backing away, “See you in the morning.”

Once again, Lydia couldn’t sleep that night, however, due to her overwhelming excitement about the next day this time. Even more than seeing her idol live, her heart raced against her chest, understanding that after all these confusing months, she will be around Stiles. Having fun. Being normal. Letting go of whatever destroyed these ordinary things.

At around two o’clock Lydia tossed her blanket aside and switched her nightstand lamp on. She had no intention of annoying the typically grumpy morning Stiles as she struggled to pick an outfit for the concert. Lydia pushed her wardrobe open, rummaging through the dresses on the hangers and scattering them across the floor. Once the wardrobe emptied, she spotted something scarlet and sparkly, fallen to the bottom among her fancier shoes. She picked it up, the fabric soft on her skin. The last time she’d worn this dress, Stiles had taken it off her.

Without considering what she was doing, she slipped out of her nightgown and put the dress on. She studied herself in the mirror, skimming her fingers over the neckline, recalling how Stiles had pulled it down as he buried his face in her chest. Something about the look didn’t feel complete to her and she approached her box of jewellery, exploring her options even though she knew _all too well_ which hairpin she’d settle for. When she checked her reflection again, she was fully thrown back in time to the farewell party, remembering how she’d stood before her mirror as Stiles and Adam shouted from the living room. Lydia wondered if they would’ve ever ended up in Stiles’ bed if he’d told the truth right at the moment she’d asked. If she’d realised she’d loved him by now.

When her alarm awoke Lydia at six, she didn’t immediately remember that she was twenty-two now. As she leaned over to respond to some birthday messages, the door to her room cracked open and she had about a quarter of a second to pull her blanket over her chest, which her nightgown barely covered. Fully dressed - and extremely well at that, Stiles cornered her with a hug. She didn’t respond, aware that the second her hand dropped, the blanked would as well.

“Happy birthday,” said Stiles, apparently realised as he pulled away quickly. “So, Taylor Swift tonight… _Ready for it_?” he added with a smug. If Lydia could, she would’ve punched him.

“I don’t think I’d be ready to see her live if I had a lifetime to prepare,” Lydia reckoned. “What about you, though, should I get you one of those adult diapers in case you pee your pants? You have the biggest crush on her after all.”

“No, I don’t!” Stiles protested, the dishonesty apparent in his voice.

Lydia chuckled, “It’s okay, I have a crush on her as well.”

Suddenly picking up a burning smell, Lydia’s nose wrinkled as Stiles’ eyes filled with horror. He excused himself to the kitchen at once, letting her change into something comfortable for the long ride. She slipped the scarlet dress, hairpin and makeup into her handbag before heading towards the smell of eggs and toast. They ate in silence, occasionally hiding yawns, until Stiles disposed of their emptied dishes in the sink. Feeling too cheerful, Lydia didn’t even pester him for not washing them right away.

When they hopped in the car minutes later, Stiles clutched the wheel with one hand and held his phone with the other, yet he didn’t do as much as switching the engine on, frozen in his seat. She looked at him expectantly, his mouth opening and closing but not letting any word come out.

“I didn’t make the playlist because I have a _crush_ on you,” he said after a moment or two, connecting their gazes. “I actually made it because-”

“You don’t have to make an excuse, it’s fine,” urged Lydia. Fear flooded her eyes at the thought of discussing crushes when she _loved_ him and the start of a long day together wasn’t exactly the most appropriate time to confess it.

Stiles frowned, “No, I want to tell you that-”

“Let it go, Stiles,” she rejected him again, more nervously. They were entering unknown territory, one she wanted to come into prepared only. “Just put it on.”

“But-”

“Just play it!”

His eyes and lips narrowed as he glanced away, finally turning on the engine and starting the playlist. Stiles didn’t speak for the first dozen songs as he drove through Boston, then past the sign of leaving the city. Lydia hummed along to the songs, occasionally darting glances at him; her stomach churned guiltily for refusing to listen to him. When _Getaway Car_ came on, however, the tension between them lifted as Stiles cracked a smile and they screamed the lyrics at the top of their lungs, speeding past hundreds of cars on the motorway, the trees on the side of the road flashing past as though fragments of memories. Relieved to have gone back to normal, Lydia encouraged a heated discourse about their favourite and least favourite Taylor Swift songs, objecting each other’s rankings, all except for _Dress_ , which they both placed first.

Upon entering the outskirts of New York City, Stiles parked the car at a free lot by a gas station, having no intention to deal with the city’s infamous traffic. They found the subway and travelled into the heart of Brooklyn, their wagon loading with New Yorkers as they neared it. Once they set foot back above the ground, they pushed through thousands of people on their way to a sightseeing bus. Even though they’d travelled to NYC countless times since moving to Boston, they had hours to kill before the concert, hours otherwise spent on the overwhelmingly busy sidewalk they wanted to avoid. Lydia and Stiles hopped on, paying for an unlimited ride before rushing up the steep stairs to the open-aired roof of the bus. As a tour guide shouted her comments, New York accent thick, to foreigners through the whistling wind, they squeezed past them to the farthest end of the bus, settling down and falling in conversation, mostly gossiping about the tourists or naming famous buildings before the tour guide could. As the sky darkened, threatening heavy rain, Lydia considered asking Stiles to find a cover, but decided against it, unable to interrupt his enthusiastic monologue about how overrated NYC is. He only stopped when a big droplet bounced off his nose and, just like that, rain started pouring down on them, dampening their clothes immediately. Tourists rushed to the stairs, blocking the exit for Lydia and Stiles long enough for them to get soaked to their skin. Water was still dripping from their clothes as they finally got off the bus and hid under a fire escape ladder in a deserted alley, laughing with heaving chests.

“I am not going to the concert like this,” informed Stiles, squeezing out a good litre of water from his jacket. His usually pulled back hair now formed a wet fringe, and Lydia considered tossing it aside from his eyes until he spoke again. “Want to go shopping?”

“Weirdly, that sounds fun.”

Stiles offered her a hand to help her up from her crouching position, and once she accepted it, neither of them let go. Disregarding the rain completely as their interlocked fingers distracted her, Lydia followed Stiles to the main street.

After passing various stores with skyrocketing prices, they discovered an affordable little place a couple of blocks from the arena. Upon entering and greeting the salesperson, they disconnected their hands, instead busying them with the different fabrics of shirts and pants. Every once in a while, Stiles would disappear in the changing room and come out in a new outfit like a model as Lydia judged him like Tyra Banks - booing or cheering him on. Over time, they’d forgotten what they came to the store for and picked funny combinations of tops and bottoms instead.

“What is your boyfriend looking for exactly?” asked the salesperson as she approached Lydia, on a stuffed chair in front of the dressing room Stiles occupied once again, pointing at the pile of drastically different clothes forming beside her.

Lydia shrugged off her assumption without a second thought, “A concert outfit. Something red for the top so we could match.”

“You could’ve said that to me!” shouted Stiles from across the pulled curtain. Lydia chuckled as she informed the salesperson of his sizes and watched her disappear back into the store. Within another ten minutes, Stiles finally settled for a red dress shirt and skinny jeans. As he left to pay, Lydia entered the dressing room he’d departed from to change into her dress, pull her hair up with the hairpin, and put on a quick layer of red mascara and lipstick.

Stiles watched as Lydia walked towards the exit of the store, his mouth hanging open in surprise. When Lydia reached him, his lips pursed and he looked away.

Lydia had quite forgotten the possibility of Stiles recognising the dress.

As the pair headed towards the arena, the sky no longer crying, Stiles continued to sulk, only holding onto Lydia to avoid losing her in the crowd. They knew they’d reached the place without looking at the street, seeing thousands of excited fans queue outside ten sets of barricaded doors, most wearing merch. 

When they found the right door, stopping behind a pair of girls holding hands as they discussed songs they were looking forward to hearing the most, Stiles broke their silence, his gaze falling on the red fabric peeking through her jacket, “Any reason you picked that dress?”

“It’s red. As is my favourite album of hers,” Lydia blurted out the first thing that came to her mind.

“Good choice,” said a girl with a grin, passing by them to the front of the queue. Stiles, however, didn’t seem too happy with her answer but moved on anyway.

* * *

Anxiety rattled Stiles insides as they located their seats in the arena of thousands of squirming people, the pre-concert playlist getting quieter the farther up they moved. Everywhere he looked, fans, although excited, fans were sending envious glances at the pit.

“Again, I don’t care how close to the stage we are,” said Lydia, having read his expression as they settled down, putting their damp coats at their feet. “I’m just really happy we’re here,” she added, reaching for his hand and squeezing it with a smile. Stiles copied the gesture, easing down. Lydia kept their fingers interlocked over the armrest between them all the way through the excruciating wait for Taylor to come onstage. Then, without any warning, she did. Lydia pulled him up as the crowd exploded.

They danced their way through the first part of the show, losing their voices from laughing and screaming in no time. Their hands ached from clapping but neither seemed to mind. As Taylor paused in the middle of _All Too Well_ to examine the glowing crowd, Lydia poked his shoulder. The second he looked her way, she put her arms around his neck, pulling him into her chest.

“Thank you. For everything,” Lydia said into his ear, speaking loud enough for him to hear over the uproar of the crowd. She pulled a few inches away, keeping her arms around him as he did the same, looking up into his eyes with her own glistening. His gaze darted down to her lips and he didn’t even feel guilty as she smiled out an inaudible “I love you”. As Stiles tried to remember the last time Lydia had uttered the three words and if her eyes had ever bored into his then as they did now, her head jerked forwards. For a moment, he stupidly thought she was going to kiss him and his heart skipped several beats, but she pulled him back into an embrace again, not letting go for minutes with her ear pressed to his chest as her breath prickled the skin on his neck. His hands found her hair, playing with her locks, careful not to let her hairpin slip out. As the chords of _Dress_ started playing at the back of his mind, he remembered where they were, drifting apart from her as they sang the lyrics to their favourite song. Stiles pulled out his phone and started recording as Taylor reached the chorus, turning the camera around the arena until it caught Lydia, staring vacantly at nothing in particular with tears tugging at her eyelashes and trembling fingers connected over her stomach. Stiles put the camera away, observing the red mascara staining her cheeks as the lyrics penetrated their way into his thoughts.

> _say my name and everything just stops_
> 
> _i don’t want you like a best friend_
> 
> _only bought this dress so you could take it off_

Life returned to her still eyes and she shook her head to get back into reality. Stiles wanted to say something, _anything_ , but his lips felt sewn together. Automatically, he put an arm over her back, pulling into her side. She hesitated before resting her head on his shoulder. They swayed throughout the rest of the show, drifting apart only to join in the crowd’s cheers at the end.

When Taylor vanished and the neon lights replaced the regular yellow, Stiles noticed quite a lot of people behind them watching them. “You guys are adorable,” said a girl, looking from Lydia to Stiles with a smile. He chuckled nervously, glancing down at Lydia, who seemed to not have heard her, rummaging through her bag for a mirror and checking her makeup in it. He waited until she wiped the mascara off her cheeks and rushed up.

“Hotel or home?” asked Stiles.

Lydia hesitated, weighing the options in her head.

“Home.”

Within an hour, they’d made it back to the Jeep on an especially full subway, crammed with overwhelmed fans. The pair grabbed a quick bite at the gas station before approaching the car, the silence incredibly loud in their ringing ears.

“I want to drive,” informed Lydia, stepping in front of him, her back pressed against the driver’s door. Knowing better than to argue, Stiles went around the car and hopped in from the passenger’s seat. Lydia pulled out of the parking lot, turning down the radio at the sight of Stiles’ head resting against the window. He watched the city lights in every colour disappear in the distance, burning out like stars, as he dozed off.

The next thing he knew, Lydia’s hand was on his shoulder as she was asking him to wake up. His eyelids fluttered open. It took him a moment to understand that he was in the car and then another that the music had ceased and the lights in the car had gone out but they weren’t outside their house. In fact, she had pulled on the side of a deserted road, surrounded by shadowed woods.

“What’s happening? Where are we?” asked Stiles, furrowing his eyebrows as he glanced at Lydia in the dark, barely telling apart her features. He heard her sigh.

“In short, the battery’s dead again. We’re just outside Boston, though, so-”

“I’ll call Scott,” said Stiles, already reaching for his phone. This had happened twice since they’d moved to Boston and their friend had become their saviour. During both occurrences Lydia had complained to him, even going as far as calling his beloved car a junk and ordering him to replace it with their savings. This time, however, she was quiet when Scott ended the call, saying he’d rescue them within the hour. Stiles turned on his flashlight and put his phone between them, illuminating the salon and a few feet of the road before them. A deafening silence entrapped them until Lydia unfastened her seatbelt and leaned against her seat more comfortably.

“Seeing there’s nothing else to do, does this mean we can talk now? Finally?”

“Finally?” Stiles repeated, narrowing his eyes in confusion. Lydia clicked her tongue.

“You tried everything in your power so that we couldn’t when you were still avoiding me, it- Don’t you try to deny it!” she exclaimed as his mouth opened in protest. “It felt worse than when you were gone. You were here but you weren’t and I couldn’t help but assume that you did it because of where we left off before your internship.”

His mouth shut at once. Lydia’s gaze penetrated him, evidently urging him to start talking. He broke their eye contact momentarily, trying to pull himself together.

“Fine, _yes_ , I was avoiding you,” Stiles admitted bitterly. “But only because you wanted to talk about something we agreed we would never mention again. I regret it now.”

“Which part? Avoiding me or sleeping with me?”

His lips pressed together as he tried to hold back from saying just how much he could _never_ regret the latter. Instead, he decided to do what had started coming to him naturally over the years of keeping his feelings for her hidden - lie.

“Maybe both,” Stiles let out with such force, every muscle in his body tensed. When he finally dared to look at Lydia, her eyes had turned darker than the endless void around them.

“I see,” uttered Lydia, hiding her face as she faced the window.

He wanted to reach for her, pull her back and protest but a little voice in his voice reminded him about the dangerous territory he’d enter if he did.

“Completely meaningless,” said Stiles, drawing her gaze back. “You said it yourself.”

Fury replaced the darkness in her eyes, “Well it ended up meaning a whole lot to me!” She swung back around, locking her fingers around the door handle.

“What?” asked Stiles with his heartbeat racing in his ears at once. He leaned over her, putting his hand over hers. Lydia knocked it away but stopped trying to leave the car. She said nothing, looking fixedly at the door handle. “Lydia, _what_ are you implying?”

“Why do you care?” Lydia queried, raising her voice. “You regret it,” she quoted him in a mocking tone.

“I don’t, okay?” cried Stiles, ridding himself of the tiny voice that had kept him from telling the truth at last. Lydia glanced at him, utterly baffled. “I- I lied. Actually, I’ve been lying to you for a long time.”

“Because that makes me feel so much better, thank you.”

Stiles didn’t manage to stop her from leaving the car this time. He struggled with his seatbelt before running out after her.

“Lydia, you don’t understand-”

“I don’t care.”

She exited the flashing-illuminated space in front of the Jeep, disappearing into the darkness.

“Please listen to me,” called Stiles desperately, staying by the bumper. “You’ve nowhere to go anyway.”

Having realised so, too, Lydia returned, stopping a good few feet from him with crossed arms, half exposed to the dim light. He couldn’t see her eyes but he guessed they stared at him expectantly.

“I have no idea where to start,” Stiles realised, searching through every single memory of a time he chose to conceal the truth from her.

“Informative opening.”

After hesitating some more, he settled on beginning with the very end.

“I skipped the first week of my internship because I _hoped_ they’d send me home,” said Stiles, the weight he’d carried for half of his life already liberating him. “The second my plane took off from Boston, I wanted to return and tell you everything. Like how Aiden wasn’t wrong back then.” He let out a small, humourless laugh.

“Ever since middle school, I have been trying to get over you in any way I could think of. Like running off to another country and dating the first girl I met. Tried and failed to,” Stiles admitted, both to her and himself. “I tried telling you how in _love_ with you I am this morning but, well, you wouldn’t let me and then I thought that maybe I shouldn’t bring it up, perhaps ever.”

Excruciating silence fell upon them. All his ears caught was the slight breeze that whistled through the treetops, swaying in slow motion, and an owl or two hooting in distance.

Then Lydia stepped forward, entering the light, her expression unreadable. 

“Why did you want to get over me?”

Out of whatever response he’d imagined over the years, he hadn’t prepared for this. The corners of his mouth dropped.

“Because you’re not in-”

“But I am!” Lydia jerked towards him, grabbing his shoulders and squeezing them hard enough to paralyse him. “I am in love with you, Stiles.”

She released the grip, backing away with a miserable scoff. “And I haven’t known it a long time but I’ve cared enough to try to tell you, instead of pushing you away as you have me. I trusted you, _always_ , and a lot of the time I didn’t trust my doubts, thinking you would never keep something so important from me, yet you did. And for how long - since middle school? That’s ten years! Ten years worth of opportunities. Instead, you let me fall for you in the most painful of ways.”

Every inch of Stiles numbed. So many questions raced through his mind, each of them as pressing as the next but he shrugged them away, fixed on the girl before him who, after all this time, turned out to have felt the same. He flinched.

“I didn’t tell you this whole time because I was afraid that you’d hate me, of making you uncomfortable, of losing you-”

“That is _such_ bullshit,” Lydia cut him off, her voice coming out in a squeak. Her voice softened as she continued, “You’re my best friend. I have known you since before you even _became_ you. I would never abandon you and, even if I wouldn’t feel the same way, I would try to understand you - that’s what friends do. It wouldn’t have been a big deal then but now it is. Maybe you don’t know me like I assumed you did.” She paused, catching her breath. “You know what was my first thought when you told me about your _crush_ on our first day of college? ‘I wish I’d known then’. I wish I’d known so that maybe I wouldn’t have had to date assholes all the way through high school. I could’ve been with the person I actually care about, who means everything to me, instead.”

“What are you trying to say?” asked Stiles, his voice tinier than a whisper. “That you don’t want to be with me? Even though we love each other?”

“Of course I want to be with you!” Lydia disputed his worry at once, almost offended. “I just want us to learn and- And improve and be honest with each other because of how much us working out matters to me.”

“I’m willing to change anything. Do anything,” stressed Stiles, his heart pounding louder than he spoke.

“Okay.”

“Lying to you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Okay.”

“ _That’s_ what I regret. Nothing else.”

Before either of them could say anything else, two headlamps shined over them, exposing a much softer expression on Lydia’s face. Stiles stood paralysed, staring back at her with a growing smile until the very last moment, when Scott approached them, glancing between them curiously, “Should we get this car started then?”

They started apologising to Scott for bringing him out there so late at once. As the group struggled to jump-start the Jeep in the dark, Lydia and Stiles sent flustered glances at each other. He felt as though he was floating an inch above the ground, the realisation that the only thing he’d ever truly dreamed of had come true sinking in.

When their attempts finally worked, Lydia and Stiles settled back inside the car, switching seats again, as did Scott in his. As quickly as he could, Stiles turned the engine on and pulled back onto the road. Speeding way over the limit, he overtook Scott almost instantly. Neither Lydia nor Stiles uttered a word as they entered Boston, crossing every street on their way home. It wasn’t like when Lydia had silenced him in the morning - this time the tension between them was purely out of excitement for whatever change was about to be brought to their lives.

As the pair reached the door to their apartment, he no longer wanted to rush inside, instead taking a moment longer than he normally would to unlock the door. He pushed it open, hearing Lydia’s sharp intake behind him.

All at once, many things happened. Two bags dropping to the ground. Two coats taking their respective hooks on the wall. Two pairs of feet slipping out of their shoes. Two pairs of eyes finding the other’s in the light from the hallway. Two hearts sharing the same beat.

“Stiles,” whispered Lydia, but he knew what was coming even before she’d said his name.

All sound ceased and time stopped as Lydia’s back crashed against the door, slamming it shut and erasing the only source of light, except for the spark that shined within them as their lips parted with each pull, growing more eager for the next. Never in his life had he wanted her more than now, having discovered that she wanted him the same. Yet despite knowing her answer, Stiles broke them up to ask.

“Not meaningless?”

Lydia let out a faint chuckle, “Definitely.”

“See, I don’t know what you mean when you say that because sentences like those really confuse me-”

Their noses bumped again as Lydia kissed him, much slower, only drifting apart when their heads spun from their incapability to draw a breath. Stiles stepped backwards, dragging Lydia with him as he cupped her hips, not really sure where they were headed. They broke apart once more and Lydia intertwined their fingers, boring into his eyes with pupils so dilated he wondered if she could see at all, as she led them into her room. Unlike the last - or rather - first time, she laid across the bed without hurry and he hovered over her, his elbows pressed into the mattress on each side of her With his brightest smile, he moved his fingers to her face, skimming them over her cheek back and forth before leaning down to kiss it. Then the other. The tip of her nose. The space between her eyes. Three on her forehead. One beneath each ear. Her chin. He pushed himself back up, taking in every bit of her. Her half-lidded eyes, lazily staring into his in adoration. The strawberry blonde locks encircling her head as if protecting her, the hairpin already lost. The...

“Dress,” said Stiles in realisation. Lydia sent him a questioning glance, her eyes opening wider. “The song,” he clarified.

Lydia half laughed, half frowned. “Why are you thinking about Taylor Swift now?” 

“That’s why you really put it on, right?” asked Stiles, skimming his fingers over the lace of the red fabric. He remembered the concert, the song dampening her eyes, and how she’d claimed it the one she related to the most just that morning.

Lydia scoffed, hiding the matching scarlet in her cheeks as she turned her head to the side.

“Goes without saying.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this, i lost my mind trying to find the best way to end this story and i'd love to hear if it you liked it :') i was writing this for 9 days straight, constantly changing the plot until essentially the senior swiftie in me made an appearance :D speaking of which, she won the grammy for best album of the year as i finished this last night so congrats to her!
> 
> my easter break is coming next weekend so perhaps i can squeeze another one shot into my schedule but we'll see!
> 
> please comment and kudos! <3 and if you're here, please check out my previous one shot 'screaming chicago' because it's honestly my best work and I'm disappointed to see how badly it's doing :(
> 
> \- dylan, @FORLYDS on twitter


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